


Raining Blue

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Creature Fic, Gen, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Post-Case, SPN Eldritch Bang, Southern Gothic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Mere hours after a hunt gone wrong that injured Castiel, Dean finally pulls the Impala to a stop outside of an abandoned mansion. Despite the torrential rain, with Sam at his side, they're able to drag Castiel to shelter. The mansion is safe, so he hopes, and his family is together. Even then, Dean can't shake the feeling that he's being watched—and whatever it is, it's inside the house.





	Raining Blue

Humidity hangs thick in the air even after midnight, drenching everything it touches, more so than the heavy rain pouring down, pinging off the Impala’s roof. Dean pulls to a stop at the end of a red dirt road, in front of what looks to be a two-story home. No lights on, no sign of human inhabitation—which means, they can hide out there for the night, or for however long this takes.

“Alright, help me grab him,” Dean says the second he shuts off the engine. All he can see beyond the Impala’s windows is the dark of night; he hasn’t spotted a person for miles, not since they left the highway in search of shelter. Out here, he just hopes for a miracle.

Sam exits first with Dean not far behind, immediately yanking the rear passenger door open. Inside, Castiel groans and clutches his thigh, white spilling into his hand, even though the bandage hastily wrapped around his pant leg. “Cas, you’re gonna have to help us here,” Sam pleads, catching Castiel’s attention.

To the best of his ability, Castiel sits up enough for Sam to hoist him out by the armpit, helping him stand. After that, Dean wraps one arm around Castiel’s middle and allows Castiel to disperse his weight between the two of them, for the few steps it takes to make it onto the porch. In his current state, he can barely walk, both feet dragging through the mud until they can get him up the steps and out of the storm.

Overhead, lightning streaks the sky, and Dean leaves Sam long enough to run back and slam the passenger door shut, afterwards locking the Impala. Tomorrow, hopefully, he’ll worry about drying the interior out; for now, he concentrates on saving Castiel.

“I’m sorry I’m burdening you,” Castiel says once they make it to the front door. The last of his strength leaves him the second they pass the threshold, and Dean has half a second to wonder if someone warded the place before Castiel passes out and drags them both to the rotting wood paneling. No holes, though—at least the place has that going for it.

Dean holds a hand over Castiel’s nose just as Sam asks, “He’s not dead, is he?”

Thankfully, Castiel is still breathing. It doesn’t make Dean feel any better. “Think the pain finally caught up to him,” Dean huffs, raking the rain from his hair. Castiel lasted two hours in the backseat, bleeding Grace all over the upholstery; honestly, if it were him, Dean would’ve passed out the minute he got into the car. “You think we can get him upstairs?”

“Actually, we should probably camp out down here for the night,” Sam suggests, still attempting to catch his breath. “Give me the keys and I’ll get our stuff, you get him—” He stops to look around, coming up with nothing. Until they get the flashlights from the car, all Dean can see is darkness around every corner. “Maybe somewhere that’s not the hall.”

“I got him,” Dean says, mostly to himself.

Sam runs back into the rain, and Dean spends the rest of that time dragging Castiel through the house. With the occasional flashes of lightning, Dean takes in the room: possibly a dining room, based on the peeling wallpaper and just how narrow the space is, with a single window spanning the longest wall and a sagging section of floor in the corner. Not exactly the best place in the world, but Dean has stayed in worse. At least it’s free.

“Dean,” Castiel mumbles amidst the noise of the rain, pervasive even through the walls. Looking down at him, Dean spots the faintest of Grace glowing in Castiel’s eyes, tears collecting in the crease of his nose. He swallows and takes Castiel’s hand in his, warming his fingers. “Dean,” Castiel repeats, stronger this time, but still just as winded. “I’m not dead.”

“You bet your ass you aren’t,” Dean laughs, or attempts to. “Dragged your ass to bumfuck nowhere, better be fuckin’ alive.”

“I appreciate your help,” Castiel says, just as he tenses, grinding Dean’s knuckles in his grip. He covers the bandages covering his thigh, hissing through his teeth. Just barely, Dean can see Grace bleeding through. “Although I wish it weren’t under these circumstances.”

Dean shakes his head, willing off the fatigue in his bones. “We’ll stitch you back up,” he promises, giving Castiel a gentle squeeze. Tending to Castiel takes priority; after that, he can fall asleep on the cold floor and come morning, they’ll all figure out where to go from here.

Sam returns just in time for Dean to prop Castiel’s head up on his thigh, their hands still joined in the dark. He carries both of their duffels and every flashlight they have, along with a pop-up lantern. “You get the first aid kit?” Dean asks. Atop Castiel’s chest, he presses his fingers over Castiel’s heart, just to know that he’s alive, that he’s still breathing.

“And extra gauze,” Sam says. He always was the smart one of the two of them, Dean thinks. “How’re you doing Cas?”

“I’ve been better,” Castiel croaks. “I’m bleeding.”

“We know,” Dean sighs. Every bit as mirthful as he intended, he continues, “Think it’s time we got these pants off you.”

In the dark, Castiel groans. “Oh joy.”

-+-

The rain stops early in the morning, but much to Dean’s displeasure, the clouds stick around, fog hanging low enough to obscure everything outside. Snuffling awake, he sits up far enough to extract himself from Castiel’s side, one of his legs still draped over Castiel’s. Sam isn’t much better off, an arm resting atop Castiel’s chest and nose pressed into his shoulder, all while Castiel blinks up at the ceiling. Very nearly, Dean laughs at the exasperation on his face.

“While I’m not averse to sharing body heat,” Castiel whispers, “this was probably the worst place to do it.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” Dean says. Outside, he watches an owl perched on a tree limb, its occasional hoots unnerving. Fog churns everywhere he looks, an ever-present blanket of gray swallowing everything it touches. “Looks like the rain stopped,” he says, to Castiel’s agreement. “Any guess where we are?”

“I have no idea,” Castiel says. _Very encouraging_. “We’re not far from a city, but we’re well out of our way.”

Dean shakes his head. “Just what I wanna hear.” Both hands in his hair, he looks over to Castiel’s leg and spots the bloodied gauze peeking out from underneath one of Dean’s many flannel shirts. Castiel’s pants aren’t entirely a loss; give Dean a needle and thread and he can stitch them back up soon. “How’s your leg?”

“Healing,” Castiel replies. “Sore, mostly.”

To be expected, really. Dean is still surprised Castiel didn’t die the minute the blade pierced his skin. It could’ve been worse—Castiel could’ve been stabbed in the chest.

Gingerly, he scoots over to Castiel’s injured thigh and lifts up the shirt enough to expose the bandage, already seeped through; to his relief, peeling back the gauze, all he can see is blood and the beginnings of a scab. No more Grace. “I think you’re out of the woods,” Dean says, reaching for the first aid kit. “Think you can get Sam up? I need you to—”

“I’m awake,” Sam grumbles, none too pleased about it. Sitting up, he brushes the hair out of his face and looks down at Castiel, then at Dean, then out the window. “We made it to morning?”

“Shockingly,” Dean says. He helps Castiel upright, mostly under Castiel’s own power, and nods in relief when Castiel stretches his leg out without a grimace. “You sure you’re good?”

“The rest will heal in time,” Castiel says. “How are you both?”

“We’re good,” Sam answers, looking himself over. “Freaked out, but… fine, I guess.”

In hindsight, Dean really wishes he could remember exactly what happened. Someone got the jump on them a few hundred miles back and Castiel took the worst of it. As far as he knows, the thing could still be out there; all he cares about, though, is that Sam and Castiel are alive and breathing. Now, if only they weren’t stuck in what looks to be a mansion in the middle of nowhere.

Not even a nice mansion, either, but a decrepit one, full of termite-eaten paneling and ornate wainscoting. From his position in the dining room, Dean can see a staircase leading to the second floor and a front foyer, and another room beyond, most likely a den. No furniture in sight, no footprints except their own—just dust and mold and the stench of muddy water wafting through broken windowpanes.

“Think this place’d look nice fixed up,” Dean observes. Scissors in hand, he cuts off Castiel’s bandage and casts it aside. Sam winces at the sight of the wound—triangle-shaped, with a smaller tear around the back of his thigh where the tip pierced through. “Bastard had an angel blade on him,” he says, taking out a packet of antiseptic wipes and more gauze.

“But there weren’t any angels around for miles,” Sam says, and Castiel nods along. “You know how it is when a bunch of them show up, the air just feels… weird, but not with this guy.”

Unfortunately, Sam is right. Angels radiate power, a vibration that Dean can sometimes feel in his teeth if more than one of them are around. Castiel’s wavelength, he’s gotten used to, but last night, he felt nothing. The scent, though, he remembers vividly: like decaying flowers and the tang of copper, mingled competitively into one. Nothing he’s ever smelled together, for sure.

Castiel lifts his thigh while Dean wipes away the dried blood, still mulling over just what the attack entailed. “So we’ve got an unidentified monster running around with an angel blade,” Dean says, tossing the towelette to the side and tearing off a strip of gauze with his teeth. “And it went straight for an angel. So what gives?”

“I have no clue,” Sam says through a yawn. “What I do know is, we need to get out of here before it decides to make the hike and finish the job.”

“Good plan,” Dean says. Deftly, he tapes the ends of the bandage together and pats Castiel’s thigh, a little too close to his hip. Sam, thankfully, doesn’t say anything, even if he does snort. Castiel busies himself with grabbing his pants from the bay windowsill. He thumbs over the tear in the fabric, just as Dean offers, “Give me five minutes and I’ll fix it?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Castiel says, eyes still locked on the hole in his slacks. “I just wish it hadn’t been so dark last night.”

Sam sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think we jumped into it too fast. We should’ve called for backup, gotten some more people on our side, before we just waltzed in there like we knew what we were doing.”

“Didn’t expect there to be forty of the bastards,” Dean adds.

Vampires kill in packs, yes, but never has he seen so many of them in one area, all starving and waiting for someone oblivious to wander by. Dean, Sam and Castiel only managed to take down a third of them before they scattered, but the one that lingered—the one with the blindingly blue eyes—latched onto Castiel the second they walked into the barn. Where the rest of them are, Dean doesn’t have a clue.

“Anyway.” On tired knees, Dean stands. “I’m gonna get my sewing kit, and then we’ll head out. There’s gotta be a McDonalds or something open this early.”

No matter where Dean walks, the floor sags under his feet, creaking with every step. Making his way into the mud, Dean stops before the Impala and looks over his shoulder, taking in the front façade of the home. At some point, someone obviously took care of this place, only to abandon it and the rest of the land. White and yellow paint peels off the columns and balusters, and termite tracks pit every square inch of wood. The chimney collapsed sometime in the last few decades, its bricks littering the yard, some of them stuck in the oak tree butting up against the side of the home. Rocks damaged some windows on the ground floor, but the upper story remains intact. Most of the shingles are still in place, at least, save a few that slipped off into the yard.

Dean’s sewing kit sits beside the full gas canister in the trunk, kept in a red velvet box with most of the felt rubbed off from years of wear. Before he closes the lid, Dean looks over the car and initially finds nothing wrong. No scratches or blemishes, just as he left her, but he does spot a rainbow-hued stain trailing under his boots. “Oh, no,” he says, panicked, and drops to his knees. Now the smell of gas makes sense—not from the canister, but from the car. “Oh, Baby, no.”

“Dude, what’s taking you?” Sam asks from the front door. Underneath the back end, Dean alternates between fumbling for the gas tank and watching Sam’s feet approach, stopping beside the bumper. “Did something break?”

“Something cut the fuel line,” Dean huffs, just barely managing to keep himself from punching the chassis. Last night, he still had enough gas in the tank to make it to the next town, and then some; now, it saturates the drying mud and his shoes. “Or someone, probably.”

Sam, not entirely unexpected, panics. “So what, we’re stuck here?” he balks, smacking the trunk lid. Dean pulls himself free, brushing the mud from his coat before Sam continues, brows raised and eyes wider than Dean has ever seen them, “This road’s gotta be a mile long, and who knows how far the nearest town is—”

“Calm down,” Dean hisses. “I got the parts, it’s just gotta take me a few hours.”

“You have—Do you just have spare parts lying around?”

“You think I wouldn't?” Over the years, he’s learned to keep anything and everything on hand just for instances like this. Normally, though, he can fix Baby in a parking lot, not in a mud-caked driveway. “Ain’t my first rodeo, Sammy.”

Both hands in his hair, Sam shakes his head before blowing out a sigh. “You still keep the canned food in the tire well?”

Dean laughs, feigning surety. Food and shelter, he can provide—figuring out what cut the fuel line, though, that's what worries him. “We’re gonna be fine. Really, I got this.”

“You sure?” Sam asks. Pointedly, Dean doesn’t look at his face and heads back to the porch, where Castiel now waits, leaning against the front door jamb. The fog hangs thick through the trees; out of the corner of his eye, Dean swears he sees a shadow. “These things don’t happen by accident, Dean.”

“I know,” he says. “We’ll figure it out, I swear.”

-+-

Around ten in the morning, the fog begins to give way to sun, bringing with it the ever-present humidity Dean has come to despise. From the front porch, he watches the remnants of the storm evaporate into steam, wafting off the grass and into the air. The smell of swamp water cloys his senses, thick enough to make him cover his nose. Tree limbs bow in the breeze. The front door slams open, bringing with it two bodies: Castiel to his left, propped up against whatever baluster he can find, and Sam to his right, hair pulled back with a tie.

“I’ve only got one bar out here,” Sam says, chewing his lip. “And it’s kinda freaking me out, how quiet it is.”

“I don’t sense anything,” Castiel says, idly stroking over his thigh—thankfully, now clothed. “Though the silence is… disconcerting, at best.”

Dean shrugs, shoves his hands into his jean pockets. This is how horror movies start, the eerie silence in the middle of nowhere, and the ever-present feeling of eyes watching him at all hours. “Just can’t shake that someone followed us,” he says eventually, wrapping his arms around himself, despite the heat. “You know how hard it is to fuck with a gas tank?”

“You’re suggesting someone cut it?” Castiel asks.

Sam leans back against a baluster. “You think it’s one of them? Like, they stole a car and followed us across the state line?”

“At this point, I don’t think it’d be anything else.” Dean looks out to the Impala, gas seeping into the clay and dying it deep red. “I could run over a huge rock or bottom out somewhere, and that still wouldn’t yank the hose free. And even then, I still had half a tank when I parked. Whoever did it knew what they were doing when they got up close and personal under there.”

Sam shakes his head. “It just doesn't make sense. Unless they’re on some sort of revenge mission, there’s no point in tailing us for so long. I mean, we don't even know what these things are.”

“Whatever they are,” Castiel says, “they have a pack mentality. It’s unlikely that they wouldn’t congregate together again, especially if it means avenging their slain.”

“Great,” Sam groans. “We barely even made a dent in them, and now we don’t know how many of them are hiding out there.”

“As far as I can tell, they’re not close to the house,” Castiel adds. “That may change come nightfall.”

Stomping once, Dean leaves the porch to open the Impala’s trunk. “Then I’m fixing this thing before one of them decides to slit our throats in our sleep. How’s that?”

“I’ll help with the jack,” Sam offers.

Castiel doesn’t answer immediately, his silence garnering Dean’s attention. “I can’t do much,” he says, still idly rubbing his thigh. “I can stand watch—”

“I got something better for you,” Dean quips before he can stop himself, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Get up under here and hold the flashlight. How’s that?”

-+-

Clay acts more like asphalt than it does soil, Dean realizes in hindsight. One minute, he’s halfway to installing the new hose underneath the Impala, and the next, water pours down the driveway directly through his shirt, soaking through his clothes. Where this storm came from, he has no clue, but he abandons his task anyway, tucking the hose up and out of the way and dragging himself out of the water’s path.

Sam unwinds the jack and pulls it free just before lightning starts to crack across the sky, the wind blowing tree limbs at awkward angles. Leaves scatter; thunder rattles the building’s foundation. “I didn’t hear it coming,” Castiel says over the storm, holding the front door open and jamming it closed after everyone rushes inside.

“Summer storms,” Sam concedes, shaking the rain from his hair. “Happens to all of us.”

“Could’ve happened five minutes later,” Dean growls.

Five minutes later, and he could’ve finished the job and not nearly drowned in a sudden flash flood. Ten minutes later, and they could’ve been out of here. As it is, Dean strips off his shirt and wrings it out into a hole in the floorboards.

“Really starting to hate this place,” Dean says to no one. Tossing his shirt beside their duffels, he rifles through his bag and comes up with a flannel, pushing his arms through the sleeves. He leaves the buttons undone, hoping to stave off the humidity at least somewhat. Any other time, and he might strip down to his underwear. “Feel like I’m being watched now.”

“That’s paranoia,” Castiel says. Dean just rolls his eyes.

“It might not be, though,” Sam admits. “But we can’t do anything about it, not until the rain stops.”

Dean palms his eyes until he sees stars; only then does he let go, relishing the brief blindness. “And who knows when that’s gonna be. At this rate, we could be stuck here for days.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” Castiel rests his hip against the staircase, wincing until he takes the weight off his leg. It’s been almost half a day—how is he still in pain? “At the very least, we can make it out by nightfall, but even then—”

“We won’t be able to see what we’re doing,” Dean finishes. He rakes through his hair with shaking hands, from the sudden chill in the room brought on by the storm. At least, that’s his story. In reality, adrenaline is finally catching up to him at the least opportune time imaginable, right when everyone needs him the most. He needs to fix the Impala; he needs to get everyone out of here, and all in one piece. “Shit, we should’ve just kept driving.”

Sam shakes his head. “We didn’t have time. We had to get Cas somewhere safe. In fact, it’s probably a miracle we got here in the first place.”

“We have a roof over our head,” Castiel says, eyes turned to Dean. “We’re safe here.”

Dean can barely look at him, his attention more focused on the sudden stain forming just underneath where he stitched just an hour ago. _Something’s wrong_ , he thinks, blinking. The longer he stares, the more he notices Castiel’s fatigue, the strange pallor of his skin. “Dude, sit down,” he says, just as Castiel’s arm slips off the bannister and his body falls. Dean catches him before he collapses entirely, Sam helping to ease him onto the floor as well.

Castiel’s head lists to the side; in the dark of the foyer, Dean can see blue eyes grow pale. “I don’t feel well,” he slurs. “Something’s wrong.”

“No shit,” Dean hisses. One-handed, he rips open the stitching in Castiel’s pants and presses his fingers into the wetness he finds there, seeping through the bandages. “Sam, you know anything that can feed without touching you?” he asks, covering the ruined gauze with his palm.

Sam sputters. “I don’t—Dean, there’s nothing that can do this. Whatever’s happening—”

“There,” Castiel says, clear as ever—and looking up, Dean spots a pair of glowing blue eyes at the top of the stairs. Whatever it is proves unidentifiable from this angle, but as soon as it disappears around the corner, Castiel gasps for breath, like a weight has been lifted from this chest. The flow of Grace, previously heavy enough to drip onto the hardwood, slows to a trickle, the wound beginning to knit itself together again.

“What the hell,” Sam breathes, his inhale ragged, “was that?”

Gritting his teeth, Dean looks back to Castiel, cupping the back of his head to keep him from slumping onto the floor. “Fuck if I know, but we’re gonna find out.”

-+-

There’s something in the house. Dean can hear it scurrying from room to room, but he can’t see it, no matter how hard he looks. Everywhere it goes, it leaves behind the thick scent of lavender and stale flowers, enough to spike a headache into his skull. Stepping onto the porch can only alleviate the symptoms for so long, before the humidity becomes too oppressive to even stand outside.

All the while, Castiel grows weaker, the wound to his thigh never quite stitching together. He can still walk, sure, but only with the aid of someone propping him up; if things keep progressing like they are, Dean is terrified of the prospect of carrying him to safety.

Water continues to flow down the driveway, rain pinging off the roof of the Impala and everything else it touches; a few stray drops make their way through the rotting roof, soaking into the wood. Dean finds himself transfixed with the rhythm, his anxiety doubling as he waits for each drop to fall, only to never hear it land. “Fuckin’ hate this house,” he mutters under his breath, catching Castiel’s attention. “Fuckin’ hate that I can’t get us out of here.”

“As soon as the rain stops, we’ll leave,” Castiel assures him, wincing as he runs his fingers over his pant leg, the stitching beginning to fray. As soon as they make it to the next motel, Dean is fixing them once and for all. “I’m sorry if I’m hindering your search.”

“Hey, you’re not hindering anything,” Dean says. Turning away from the now-steady drip through the roof, Dean looks to the Impala and the leaves flowing underneath it. “I’m just pissed we can’t get you somewhere where the damn thing’ll stop feeding off you.”

“I wish I could tell what it was,” Castiel says, coughing into his fist. Another sluggish pulse of Grace bleeds from the incision, now wrapped in two layers of gauze. Not like it’ll do any good. “Its energy signature doesn’t match up with anything I’ve felt. More like… a combination of others.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Something left over from Eve?” he suggests, and Castiel nods. “Well that’s perfect. Why couldn’t it be something normal, man? It was supposed to be vampires, not—”

“It could still be.” Bending his knee, Castiel sits up. “It would explain the pack mentality, but not how it’s bleeding me remotely.”

Sam’s familiar shape emerges from beyond the tree line, umbrella held close to his head while he runs across the grass. Even then, his clothing and hair are soaked through. “I got nothing,” he announces, dropping the umbrella the minute he steps onto the porch. “I followed the property line as far as I could, but there’s no sign of anyone even close to any of the out-buildings. Wherever they are, it’s gotta be close.”

“Probably the attic.” Dean shakes his head. “One place I can’t get into.” Unless he can find a ladder, there’s no way to get onto the roof, not in this weather.

“We need to find a way to combat it, if it comes back,” Castiel suggests. In his weakness, he leans back against the side of the house, hissing through his teeth. “Before it comes back, rather.”

“Have you guys narrowed down what it might be?” Sam asks, just as footsteps begin to echo upstairs.

Floorboards creek beyond the open door; perfume wafts out of every crack it can. Again, Castiel coughs, and blood speckles his palm. Not just the leg wound, then. It’s internal—whatever this is, it’s killing him.

“I don’t have a clue,” Dean growls. “But like hell ‘m I gonna sit here and watch him die.”

Pistol in hand, Dean stomps back into the house. Sam doesn’t follow, and for once, Dean is thankful—the last thing he needs is one of them nabbing Castiel, or Sam getting hurt, or both. Right now, Dean only has himself and his pistol, and the set of blue eyes staring down at him from the top landing. One, he can handle—one, he can hopefully take down with a single bullet. But the second another enters his vision, from around the corner in the den, and another from beneath the staircase, and another—all with the same eyes, with the same elongated fangs—his blood runs cold.

 _There’s too many of them_ , he thinks. They file out of every corner he can see, dressed in worn clothing and smelling of the blood Dean left them bathed in, but none of them advance. Like they know something—like they’re waiting.

“Bring him,” their leader booms from the landing, loud enough to send Dean’s heart stuttering.

Raising his pistol does no good, not when he hears Sam shout from the porch, followed by the thud of a body collapsing to the floor. Castiel cries out in terror after that, his feet dragging when three of them—all men, pale skin radiating with blue light, probably stolen from Castiel himself—drag him back into the room. Or maybe it isn’t Castiel’s Grace they’ve taken—maybe this is simply them. They aren’t dealing with vampires, or djinn—they’re dealing with their children.

“Dean,” Castiel calls, struggling against his captors. Grace or not, he can’t fight back, not with the control they have over him. Profusely, white light pours from his leg, and then one of them reaches for his spine and sinks its claws in.

The scream Castiel emits, Dean can go without hearing ever again. And he sure as hell doesn’t want to see the face that Castiel makes when the three of them—and three more, all rushing from the various rooms into the foyer—lunge at him in a mess of fangs and talons, Grace and blood spilling to the floor. All Dean can do is watch, horrified to the point of shock, as the creatures claw into his back, and pull with it two heaping masses of feather-covered bone. The squelch of blood and splitting skin is nauseating, and Castiel howls, pinned to the floor, a single hand clawing for Dean.

“This is his penance,” Dean hears their leader say. He can’t look away, can’t get the sound of Castiel being slaughtered out of his ears. A cold sweat breaks out across his skin; he might hurl. He can’t even save him—“You took my family from me, cretin. Now I’ll take the only two things in this world you can’t bear to live without.”

A gunshot rings out, and only belatedly does Dean realize that it’s from his own hand. One of the creatures falls to the floor, one after the other, while Dean wastes all six of his silver bullets into their heads. Three escape, including their leader, leaving Sam’s unconscious body in the rain, and Castiel vomiting blood beneath him, skin shredded, Grace bleeding from his bones. His wings—real wings, black and massive and clotted red—twitch absently at his sides, all while Castiel moans and begs for someone to make the pain stop.

Only then does Dean run to his side, gun dropped to the floor, Castiel’s face in his hands. “Sammy,” Dean calls, earning no response from Sam. _You better not be dead_ , Dean thinks, clearing the blood from Castiel’s eyes. _Where are his eyes?_ “Sammy, wake up,” he begs, swallowing down bile. “I need your help, c’mon.”

“Please,” Castiel croaks, his voice barely a voice anymore. “Please, make it—”

“No, no, no,” Dean hushes him. “No, you’re not dying, you hear me?” Looking up, he spots movement—Sam’s arm. “Sam!”

-+-

Night falls before Castiel wakes. Dean feels him lurch before he hears him, and he barely moves out of the way before Castiel hurls the rest of the blood from his stomach. “You’re okay,” Dean whispers, petting through Castiel’s hair with shaking hands. Adrenaline keeps him awake, for now. “You’re okay, we got you.”

“Dean,” Castiel wheezes after he’s finished, blearily looking up. For once, Dean is thankful that he can’t see Castiel’s face right now; hopefully soon, his eyes will grow back. “Dean, I can’t—”

“I’m here,” Dean cuts him off. With the last of his strength, he pulls Castiel into his lap, allowing him to rest his weight there. Slowly, he pets through Castiel’s hair, hating every gash he finds. “Sam’s here, we’re here.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” Sam offers in consolation. In the darkness, Dean watches him stitch together the last hole in Castiel’s leg, the glow of Grace finally extinguishing. The rest of him, they took care of best they could while Castiel slept. The wings, though—Dean doesn’t want to think about that. “Cas, can you hear us?”

“I can’t see you,” Castiel says, his despair palpable. Trembling fingers grip the back of Dean’s shirt, slipping a few times before finally taking hold. “It hurts.”

“I know,” Dean consoles him. “I know, but you gotta come back to us. You—You gotta hold on, man, please.”

“We sewed up what we could, Cas,” Sam says. He strokes a hand over Castiel’s wing, earning no response. Dean raises his eyebrows. “Can you feel that?”

“I believe I’ve gone into a preservation state,” Castiel replies. Absently, he tugs at Dean’s shirt, probably as a reassurance more than anything; regardless, Dean happily allows him. Sodden feathers drag slowly across the floor, no doubt forming imprints in the dust. “I think the worst has passed.”

“Heard that the last time, and look how that turned out,” Dean huffs, and Sam silently agrees. “Are you sure this time? Because you’re a fuckin’ beacon to these guys.”

Castiel shakes his head, letting his hands fall. Still shaking, he sits up enough to fall back onto his ass, wings bent at awkward angles. “They feed off energy,” Castiel says, swaying until he fully settles. “Humans won’t suffice, and I fear that the minute they saw me, they fixated on my essence.”

“And they won’t stop until they can feed,” Sam suggests. “But at the rate they’re going—”

“They’ll kill me.” Castiel bows his head. “We need to leave.”

Dean’s stomach turns. “Before they come back for seconds,” he finishes. Glancing over his shoulder, he listens for the sound of rain, but all he hears is cicadas screaming in the surrounding woods. If this really is a lull, then this is their only chance to leave. “Cas, do you think you can hide your wings?”

“If they’re not broken,” Castiel answers. “I can’t… feel them to give you an answer.”

“Here,” Sam says, just before he pops open the portable lantern, bathing the room in light—and Dean nearly hurls.

Blood and viscera stain Castiel from head to toe. Two sets of claw tracks mar his face, and while Castiel’s eyelids may be closed, Dean knows there’s nothing behind them.

His wings though, look remarkably pristine, despite their numbness. “I don’t see anything broken,” Sam says, holding up the lantern to the full breadth of them. They really are huge, spanning to each end of the room, and more. White speckles the sable feathers, with blue veining running along some of the vanes. “Do we need to stitch anything else up back there?”

“I’ll let you know,” Castiel says, straightening his back. Much gentler than they exited, Castiel retracts his wings until they disappear, presumably into the ether once again. Another thing Dean doesn’t understand, and another thing he never plans to ask about. “It’s done—”

And Castiel promptly collapses, falling into Dean’s waiting arms; not unconscious, but exhausted, his breaths barely more than sighs. “You did good,” Dean praises, tugging Castiel up to kneel. Castiel lets out what could be called a sob into Dean’s shirt, but otherwise settles, arms once again wrapped around Dean. “Sam, check him?”

“Oh Jesus,” he mutters and reaches back for the sewing kit. “It’s not bad, but it’s… I need an anatomy book.”

“Manifestations are complicated,” Castiel mumbles. He turns to bury his face in Dean’s neck. “I don’t expect you to understand. No angel has ever bared their wings in this form.”

“Ever?” Dean asks, earning Castiel’s nod. “Dude, please tell me your eyes are gonna grow back.”

“My Grace is currently waiting for Sam to finish,” Castiel comments. “Then my eyes.”

Good—Castiel won’t be blind by the time they escape, then. “You heard the man, Sammy.”

“Dude, you try to work with gaping holes,” Sam retorts, but busies himself with threading the needle anyway.

Stitching Castiel back together takes a few minutes, but Sam finishes without so much as a flinch from Castiel, his body softening once it’s done. “It’s working,” Castiel whispers. Still, he doesn’t release his hold, even after Dean pats his back, pointedly avoiding his wounds. “I’m tired.”

“I know, buddy,” Dean sighs. “You gotta get up, though. It’ll take me a minute to fix the car, tops.”

“I’ll get the jack ready,” Sam starts, but Dean cuts him off before he can even stand.

“We are not leaving this house without each other,” he warns, clinging to Castiel in the lamplight. Guilt still plagues him, but holding Castiel in his arms helps, just from knowing he’s breathing. “Made that mistake once, and Cas almost got killed, and you got knocked on your ass.”

“I’m fine, by the way,” Sam huffs. “Come on, then, if you’re gonna be paranoid about it.”

Fixing the Impala takes considerably less effort this time, now that he has a clear objective: get out alive. Sam barely gets the jack fully cranked underneath the chassis before Dean finishes and slides out. “I’ll get the gas can,” Dean grunts, not even bothering to dust off his jeans. “Get Cas in the backseat.”

No matter how hard he tries to shake it as he refills the tank, Dean can’t help but feel he’s being watched. In the trees, the cicadas continue to screech, but that’s all he hears—other than that, the world is silent, not even a breeze gusting by.

“I don’t like it,” Sam says, slamming the passenger door behind him. Castiel rights himself in the back seat, both elbows propped atop the front bench. “Something doesn't feel right.”

Throwing himself in the front seat, Dean shakes his head and turns the key fob; he nearly sobs as the engine turns over, her gas gauge reading at a little over empty. As long as it gets them out of this hell, then anything is good. “I got silver bullets in the back,” he says, turning abruptly enough to nearly knock heads with Castiel. Though, staring into solid white eyes certainly doesn’t help matters. “Mother fucker—”

“I’m afraid I won’t be of much help for a few more minutes,” Castiel says, nonchalant, blinking his newly formed eyes. “But I can still feel.”

“Under Sam’s seat,” Dean instructs, watching Castiel duck to the left. “Your other right.”

“Right,” Castiel mutters. After a second of searching, he comes back with an ammo box and hands it to Sam, along with another pistol and a knife. Leave it to them to always come prepared. “We should drive, before someone finds us.”

“Really hope I can plow one down,” Dean growls, throwing the car into drive.

The driveway ends shortly past the house, giving way to enough grass for him to turn around and kick up mud in his wake. Around them, the sky gives way to the trees lining the dirt road, all he can see for several hundred yards; whoever built this place never wanted it to be found. Water splashes from puddles underneath the tires, the suspension dipping with every pit, doing nothing to calm Dean’s nerves. It feels like it takes forever, watching the same trees pass, the same rocks, waiting for the inevitable break in the road.

In the distance, Dean sees a pair of headlights pass adjacent to his path, and his heart leaps into his throat. At the same time, a set of blue eyes flash five feet in front of his car, sending him into a skid. Castiel braces himself with his hands; Sam grabs the dashboard. “I’m gonna blast the fucker,” Dean shouts, tearing at the steering wheel.

The creature doesn’t move, the blue lines pulsing across its skin, every single one of its fangs bared. That isn’t the one that attacks the car—the other three do instead, slamming their fists through the windows until they can unlock the doors and sling them open, bodily dragging them from the car.  

Night air meets Dean like an old friend, only to be swallowed up instantly by the presence of the creature right up in his face, claws threatening to rip through his flannel and tear into his chest. Dean fights it off the best he can, even after he crashes to the ground, his gun trapped in his waistband. “Get off me,” he spits, a hand to the creature’s cold throat. It snarls and twists out of his grip, just far enough away for Dean to grab for his gun. A shot rings out from the other side of the car, not from his own weapon, and white light flashes from the glow of Castiel’s Grace. The creature didn’t even get the chance to scream.

As if in revenge, another set of talons digs into Dean’s chest, blood spilling around the wounds; a foot steps on his free hand, kicking his pistol away. Another shot rings out, too far away for his liking. Claws sink their way into his throat, beginning to rip. Choking on scarlet, Dean stares into the eyes of their leader, a smirk twisting its lips. “This is for our fallen,” it says without moving its lips.

A set of fangs punctures his chest. Dean’s blood freezes. Another two shots scream through the night, and with it, two bodies fall, one into the grass, the other half draped across his lap. Dead—they’re dead, and he’s still bleeding out. “Please,” he garbles, just as Castiel rushes over to him, Sam trailing not far behind. Castiel is here—Castiel can help.

“Hold still,” Castiel says, soothing as he can be, before he places his entire hand over Dean’s throat. Grace sings through his veins, frigid heat leaving him with unblemished skin once again.

“Dean,” Sam calls out, knees hitting the dirt. The moment Castiel lets go, he grabs Dean’s shoulders and tugs him upright, and Dean lurches and vomits between his knees, mostly blood, with the barest hint of bile. “You did it, you’re good, c’mon.”

“Almost got me,” Dean wheezes, hands in his hair. But as far as he can tell, every last one of them is dead now. If only that could keep him from wanting to pass out in his own sick. Sam can drive, for all he cares, as long as he gets them away from here. “Holy shit, are we—”

“We’re good,” Sam says, deadpan. “They’re all dead, Dean. We don’t have to run anymore.”

“We’re safe,” Castiel adds. He pulls Dean’s shaking hands away, drawing them into his own. Warm, terrifyingly solid. “You’re safe.”

Dean nods, eyes rolling back. “Gonna take a nap now,” he manages, just before he feels himself slacken. The last thing he sees before sleep takes him, is the stars peeking through the gaps in the trees, and the moon watching on, for the first time in days.

-+-

Surprisingly, the semi downshifting on the highway outside isn’t the thing that wakes Dean—Castiel climbing into his bed does, smelling of hotel soap and toothpaste. Warmth presses up against his back, and an arm drapes over his stomach.

All while Sam stares at them from the other bed, a question in his eyes, one Dean isn’t quite willing to answer. “What time is it?” Dean asks instead, palming his face. Sunlight pours through the sheer curtains, and the air conditioner drones on. It can’t be much past eight, based on the angle of the sun.

“Nine,” Sam says, and—maybe not. “You’ve been knocked out for the past ten hours. Pretty sure you still reek.”

Dean sniffs and wrinkles his nose. Not that Castiel seems to mind, based on the leg he tucks between Dean’s knees. Thankfully, Sam can’t see that underneath the blankets. “I don’t think I can move,” Dean says, letting one arm hang off the side of the mattress. “And not just because Mr. Snuggles here is using me as a pillow.”

Sam laughs, his hair falling in his face. “Yeah, I think we’re gonna camp out here for day or two. Figured it’d be good for all of us to just… sit here. Maybe use the pool some?”

“Pool sounds good,” Dean sighs, eyes slipping shut once again. The drying blood on his skin aggravates him, his need for a proper bath almost sentient. If only Castiel wasn’t so comfortable. “You okay?” he asks through a yawn. “Didn’t get a chance to really ask you.”

“I’m good,” Sam says. He palms his eyes, swinging both legs over the side of his bed. “You guys took the worst of it, I should probably be asking if you’re okay.”

Honestly, he could be better. But, it’s a miracle he survived at all. Dean is just thankful to be alive and to have his family in one piece; that he’s sleeping on a bed that’s not some termite-eaten floor is a special bonus. “I’m good,” he sighs, sneaking his hand beneath the blankets to take Castiel’s in his and slotting their fingers together. Behind him, Castiel curls closer, his exhale warm through Dean’s shirt. “Be even better if I could get a shower.”

“I really hope you do,” Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “Figured we’d let you sleep it off, though. This place actually has running water.”

“Hallelujah,” Dean snorts. “Alright, buddy, time to let go.”

Faintly, he hears Castiel protest, but ultimately releases him without much of a fight. The minute Dean climbs out of bed, he reaches out to tug on Dean’s blood-caked jeans, fingers slipping on the fabric. Somehow, it feels like a plea.

“Since you’re up,” Sam cuts in, standing as well. Crossing the room, he grabs the keys to the Impala before adding, “I’m gonna go get gas and breakfast, you want anything?”

Under his collar, Dean flushes. As much as he knows what this gesture is, it still manages to unsettle him sometimes. _I’m getting out of your hair so you can get yourself together_ , is what it’s always amounted to. In this case, _Castiel’s probably going to follow you into the bathroom and I don’t want to be here for it._

“Whatever you can find,” Dean answers, scrubbing a hand over his face. Flakes of blood peel off into his hand, and he grimaces at the feel of it. “A bucket of hash browns, if you can find them.”

“Good deal,” Sam says, waving as he shuts the door, locking it behind him.

Castiel waits all of two seconds after Sam’s departure before he pulls himself out of bed, following after Dean on unsteady legs. “I was afraid you weren’t going to wake up,” he admits after Dean strips his shirt off, tossing it to the tile floor. “Your wounds were fatal, and then you… I didn’t think I could heal you.”

Dean stops, fly half-undone and heart in his throat. “But you did,” he mumbles. Turning, he finds Castiel undressed down to his boxers, clean save for the red veining around his neck, left over from the attack. He steps closer out of habit, only to feel Castiel enter his space as well, both hands cradling his face. “You saved me,” Dean whispers, covering Castiel’s hands.

“And you, me,” Castiel adds. His hands slip free, only to land on Dean’s hips, tugging him closer, skin to skin. “Sam is of some credit as well. He drove us to safety.”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs, ducking his head. “Good ol’ Sammy. Even gave us some alone time.”

“Is that so?” Castiel hums, like he wasn’t in the room two minutes ago. Sidling closer, he loops his arms around Dean’s waist and sneaks a kiss to his jaw. “I can take my time bathing you then.”

Years—Years since they got together, and Castiel always finds a way to make him blush. Dean drags Castiel into a kiss, allowing himself to finally relax, and sincerely, he sighs, “Looking forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I've been sitting on this for months waiting to post, but here's my entire for the SPN Eldritch Bang! A big thanks to [HarplessCastiel](http://harplesscastiel.tumblr.com/) for the [art](http://harplesscastiel.tumblr.com/post/179777949695/art-masterpost-for-the-wonderful-team-free-will)!
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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